


Ordinary

by dogeared



Category: Thoughtcrimes
Genre: Challenge: Five Flans Ficathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-13
Updated: 2007-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendan can flip through his memories like rifling through a box of photos, find exactly what he's looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [The Five Flans Ficathon](http://siriaeve.livejournal.com/237704.html)

Brendan can flip through his memories like rifling through a box of photos, find exactly what he's looking for—the certain tilt of Freya's head when she's smug and smiling, the way her dark hair falls against her cheek; Jamie from Quantico, a pair of dark blue running shorts and legs that went on forever; a supermarket, three years ago, broad shoulders reaching up to the top shelf for the good coffee, backing into him for a moment of full-body contact before stuttered apologies—and, oh, that does it, makes him suck in a quick breath, close his eyes for a second and clench his hands on the steering wheel. He's driving home, end of a boring day, end of a boring week (too much paperwork, too many meetings, one completely fruitless all-night stakeout), and there's spring rolls and yellow curry on the passenger seat spilling the smell of coconut into the sedan, and he can't think of anything better than changing into his favorite t-shirt and sweats, the ones worn so thin they're barely holding together, eating his take-out Thai with clumsy chopsticks, finding something mindless to watch and falling asleep in front of the TV, pretending for one night that he has an ordinary life.

He flashes back to the grocery store (the smell of coffee beans; short, dark hairs dusting the back of a pale neck) and spares a hand to loosen his tie, slide his fingers against his throat, wishes he had scary mind control powers that could make the traffic move faster.

Forty blocks later and Brendan still can't shake the feeling of those shoulders pressed into his chest, just long enough to register warm skin underneath, and he's hard by the time he gets to his door. It takes him a couple of tries to fit the key into the lock, and then he's stumbling inside, dumping the takeout bag on the coffee table and flinging his jacket away, toeing off his shoes, unbuttoning his cuffs, fingers grazing the inside of his wrist, his belly as he unbuckles his belt, gets his pants open, takes himself in hand and collapses back on the couch. His apartment's dark, the lights of passing cars flickering across his ceiling, and he hears his own harsh breathing, the couch creaking, the slick sound of his hand on his dick echoing in the quiet. He runs a hand through his hair, rests his wrist against his sweaty forehead as he pushes up into his hand, god, so good, so good, gets a leg braced up on the table's edge for more leverage, and yeah, he can feel the burn in his thighs, tightens his fist and closes his eyes and his socked foot slips on the table and knocks over the take-out bag, and he's gasping and swearing and laughing and coming hard, arching off the couch, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes as his lungs heave, and the air he breathes in smells like spices and coconut and sex.

He unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way and pulls it off, uses it to mop himself up some, tosses it on the curry puddle and hopes it'll all wash out. He'll get up in a minute and turn on the lights and the TV, salvage what he can of his dinner, throw it in the microwave while he hops in the shower, just an ordinary Friday night. And then he'll sleep, and maybe he'll make himself a good cup of coffee in the morning.


End file.
